


Downton Anarchy

by valerie_z



Category: Downton Abbey, Music RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valerie_z/pseuds/valerie_z
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Downton Abbey/Rancid crossover. Takes place in 2012 and after the first episode of Downton Abbey in 1912. Time travel. Tim/Daisy, Lars/Everyone. R. I am not proud that I did this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downton Anarchy

Tim reached over and turned the radio up. “This is that song I like by those people we met that one time.”

Lars turned the volume down. “What did I just show you?” 

Tim leaned back in the passenger’s seat and waved at the dashboard. “Buttons. The buttons are important.” He pulled his knit hat over his eyes. “Why do I have to get a driver’s license anyway?” 

“Because sitting around customs for two hours while they run a background check and you explain your love affair with public transportation gets annoying after twenty years.” 

Tim reached for the radio. “This is that song by that guy you punched that time.” 

Lars smacked his hand away. “Now repeat to me what I taught you about the clutch.” 

“Matt makes driving look so easy,” Tim said. “You know, he’s right inside. Let’s just have him drive.” 

Lars sighed. 

There was the low rumble of thunder in the distance. 

“It’s not supposed to rain,” Tim muttered. 

Suddenly there was a deafening roar of thunder. A bright white jagged bolt of lightning cut through the sky, and both men gasped. 

“Shit, let’s get inside,” Tim said. 

“Wait.” Lars put his hand on Tim’s arm. “We’re safer in the car. The rubber tires conduct electricity.” 

“You mean they conduct or they don’t conduct electricity? Because if they do then we’re fucked.” 

“I mean whatever means we’re safe.” 

There was another loud clap of thunder and the sky lit up. 

“Are you sure tires are rubber though?” Tim asked. “I thought they were mostly synthetic.” 

“I didn’t buy cheap tires,” Lars snapped. 

“It wasn’t a judgment on your character,” Tim shot back. “I mean all tires. Aren’t all tires made with synthetic tread?” 

“These are really good tires,” Lars argued. He opened the door. “Come around and look.” 

Tim walked around and met Lars by the front driver’s side wheel. Lars pointed at the writing on the side of the tire. “See that? That means something.” 

“Mmhm,” Tim said. “Why are we pretending we know anything about tires?” 

“Because!” Lars shouted. “I’m telling you they’ll protect us from lightning!” 

Thunder boomed again and they were both struck by lightning. 

*

Lars woke up in a field. The grass was wet with dew and the sun was just beginning to appear over a line of trees in the distance. He rocked into a sitting position and winced at the pain in his head. 

“You’re a dick,” Tim groaned from beside him. “Did that knock us out all night?” He squinted up at the rapidly-brightening sky. “Probably gave us fucking brain damage.” 

“That’s the least of our worries. Check it out.” 

Tim pushed up on his elbows and looked at the looming castle just a few yards away. “That’s not my house.” 

“Dorothy, we’re not in LA anymore,” Lars muttered. He hurried to stand up and started walking toward the castle. 

Tim rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up. “If we’re doing a thing, you’re Judy Garland.” He jogged to catch up. “I’m Liza or I’m out.” 

Lars approached the carved wooden door and tried the handle. 

“And if this is Rocky Horror,” Tim added in a whisper, “I’m Meatloaf.” 

The door swung open. “Shitty security,” Lars said. They stepped inside. “Damn, nice place.” He went into the first room, spotted a desk in the corner, and started rummaging through it. 

Tim looked up at the intricate design on the ceiling. “This reminds me of a hotel I was kicked out of once because you were drunk.” He ran his hand along one of the walls next to a bookshelf. “Where are the light switches? And why’s it so cold?” 

“Oh, fuck.” Lars lifted a newspaper out of the desk drawer. “It’s cold, it’s dark, it’s a hundred years ago.” 

“What are you talking about?” Tim went to his side and looked over his shoulder. “1912? No. No fucking way it’s 1912.” 

An older man hurried into the room. He was dressed impeccably, wearing a suit with a white vest, and had perfect posture. “Gentlemen? Are we expecting you?” He looked over Tim and Lars critically. “We do not tolerate solicitors. Nor vagrants.” 

“Was that an insult?” Tim whispered. 

Lars took a step forward. “We come from the future. We can teach you all about new technologies. We can build you a car.” 

“No we can’t,” Tim said. 

“We can change the oil in a car,” Lars said. 

“No we can’t.” 

“We can change the oil in a car if we get our friend Matt here.” 

The man didn’t appear to be listening. “Unless you have business here, you will need to leave at once.” 

Another older man, also in formalwear, entered the room, and the first man bowed slightly. 

“Your Lordship,” the first man said. “I believe these men to be beggars. Clearly from their dress - ” 

“Thank you, Carson,” the man said. He turned to Tim and Lars. “I am Lord Crawley, the Earl of Grantham. What brings you here?” 

“To be honest, time travel,” Lars said. “We were struck by lightning in 2012 and we woke up outside your house. Not sure how it happened.” 

“A likely tale,” Carson scoffed. 

Lord Crawley squinted at Lars. “Those markings on your face…” 

“In the future tattoos are awesome.” Lars gestured to Tim. “His head is pretty cool.” 

Lord Crowley turned to Carson. “They don’t appear dangerous, do they, Carson?” He turned back to Lars and Tim without waiting for the man to respond. “My family has had a tragedy recently. It’s reminded me that life is short, wealth is fleeting, and charity is a virtue. You may stay for breakfast.” 

*

Lord Crawley introduced Tim and Lars to his wife, Lady Crawley, his three daughters, Lady Mary, Lady Edith, and Lady Sybil, and his mother, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, who rolled her eyes and refused to acknowledge them. 

A seemingly-endless stream of servants brought in food and waited on the group, constantly refilling their glasses and passing serving dishes. Tim tried to talk to them, saying things like “hey” and “what’s up”, but each servant just bowed their head and scurried away. 

“I doubt very much our visitors are time travelers,” Lady Mary said as she delicately picked at her kedgeree. “They look more like beggars.” 

Lord Crawley smiled. “I suspect at the very least our visitors have interesting stories to share.” 

Lars shoveled a few forkfuls of kedgeree into his mouth, and Mary audibly gasped. “Oh hell yeah,” he said through a full mouth. “In our time, they invented things called condoms, and things called birth control pills. Because of these, everyone can have all the sex they want - no consequences. No stigma either.” 

Tim stood up and headed for the tea tray near the wall, waving away a servant that tried to stop him. “Unless you’re a Republican.” 

“But no one listens to those losers,” Lars added. 

Tim picked up the teapot, opened it, and peered inside. “We also have cool things like spaceships and Netflix and ska.” He put the teapot down. “Do you have any coffee?” 

“Do you have any beer?” Lars asked. 

“Your time sounds absolutely wicked,” Lady Crawley said, though she was smiling slightly. “And we do have beer.” She gestured to a servant. 

“Music gets better too,” Lars continued. “No disrespect to the classical shit. Fucking Mozart, am I right? But wait until rock n roll hits. You’re gonna love it.” He gestured at Lord Crawley with his fork. “And some great shit comes out of England, so good on you, man.” 

Tim looked around the room. “Oh hey, speaking of music, you guys must have some seriously classic vinyl.” He noticed the blank stares around the table. “You know, records?” He paused to think about this. “Oh, shit, are we before records?” 

“There, there.” Lars reached out and patted Tim’s shoulder, though his other hand was still busy with his food. 

“I’m good,” Tim said. “Do you have like, a gramophone?” 

“Honestly, Robert,” the Countess huffed. “I know you’re upset about everyone dying on the Titanic, but you can’t expect me to associate with musicians.” 

“I think they’re amusing,” Lady Crawley said. “And we’ve no other plans for the day.” She held her hand out in a gesture of comfort to her mother-in-law. “Of course they’ll have to be on their way by sundown.” 

“I should hope so,” the Countess said. 

Lars leaned over and whispered, “Do you think if we change things it’ll have a butterfly effect that could destroy the world as we know it?” 

“Do we give a fuck?” Tim replied. 

“Cause I’m thinking,” Lars continued with a wicked smile. “I bet there isn’t a woman in this place who’s ever gotten head. What’s our record?” 

“Five individually, nine as a team.” 

Lars snuck a look over his shoulder. “Every servant is hot.” 

“And the three sisters,” Tim added. “And the mom.” 

“Even the grandma could get it.” 

Tim nodded. “She’s fierce.” 

“If we’re stuck here forever, maybe my special skills can help keep us alive.” 

“King of England via muff diving?” 

Lars slapped him on the back. “Challenge accepted.” 

*

After breakfast, one of the servants led Tim and Lars to a guest room where Lord Crawley suggested they rest from their “journey”. The room was just as nice as the downstairs, though Tim noted that the mattress seemed crappy as he sat down on the bed. 

Lars started walking around the room, opening drawers and inspecting bookshelves. “They need that thing where you put a wine glass on the mattress and jump up and down.” 

Tim frowned. “Why would you jump on wine?” 

“For fuck’s sake, you need to watch more TV.” 

“You mean grapes?” Tim asked. “It would make sense if you were talking about grapes.” 

Lars spotted something in the doorway. “Did you order a tiny pale face?” 

“Can we order grapes? You made me want grapes.” 

A young women entered, her head bowed meekly. Her hair was pulled back and she was wearing a plain, pale pink dress. 

“Please forgive me,” she said. “I’m Daisy. I’m not allowed to show myself outside the kitchen. But I just can’t help my curiosity. I wanted to see the fascinating new people. The others say my boldness and desire will be the death of me. I am flawed. Please do not tell the valet.” 

Tim and Lars stared at her for a moment. Then Tim turned his head to Lars and said, “Dibs.” 

“Check her ID,” Lars muttered. 

“May I get you anything, my lords?” Daisy asked. 

Tim stood up. “None of that ‘my lord’ shit. I’m Tim, this is Lars.” 

Daisy’s eyes widened. “I can’t possibly be so familiar. Surely you have titles or surnames?” 

Tim bit his lower lip, then whispered, “Wolverine.” 

“I can’t watch this,” Lars said, and he walked out of the room. 

*

“Freedom!” 

Lars hit the library wall with a pink umbrella he’d stolen from Lady Crawley’s room. On the wall he’d written two words in scratchy handwriting. Before him, Lady Crawley and her three daughters sat on the couch and chairs, while some of the female servants stood behind them. 

“Freedom!” Lars said, hitting the first word with the umbrella. “Clitoris!” he said, smacking the second word. “Identifying and enjoying these two things are the basis of women’s rights.” 

“What about the right to vote?” Lady Sybil asked. 

Lars put the umbrella down. “My expertise is limited. For actual politics, you have to ask Tim. Now who wants to help me draw a vulva on the wall?” 

Lady Crawley looked around. “Where is your friend Tim?” 

“With some girl,” Lars said. “Who knows what sick things they’re up to.” 

*

Tim sat on the guestroom bed brushing Daisy’s hair. 

“Mister Wolverine,” Daisy said timidly. “I confess I have a limited education, but I believe that word needs a vowel.” 

“Nah, that’s how you spell riot grrrl,” Tim said. “It’s supposed to be badass.” 

Daisy frowned. “Bad…ass?” 

“You know, like, grrr.” 

Daisy screwed up her face into a growl. “Grrrr.” 

“You are fucking adorable. As soon as I figure out the age of consent here you’re in trouble.” 

Daisy turned around and smiled. “This kind of trouble?” She kissed him briefly on the lips, then turned back around, grinning at her boldness. “But…but Mister Wolverine, this freedom you talk about. No one would allow me to act in such a way.” 

“No one gives you freedom. You take it. Malcolm X said that.” 

“Is he a friend of yours?” 

“Well…” He ran the brush through her hair and fluffed it up. “Yes.” 

Daisy turned around on the bed. “And you really think all people deserve to be equal? Even servants? Even women?” 

“I don’t just think it, Daisy. It’s the truth.” He leaned forward to kiss her again. “Now,” he whispered against her mouth. “You know what I’m thinking?” He kissed her again, then leaned back. “I’m thinking about discussing historical class warfare.” 

*

Tim and Lars didn’t see each other until later that evening, when they ran into each other in the hallway. 

“Where you been?” Lars asked. 

Tim shrugged. “This house is fucking huge. And it’s not like I could call you. Oh hey, did you break your record?” 

Lars smiled. “Annihilated it. Dinner’s in a minute.” 

“If it’s meat pie like lunch, want to try getting struck by lightning instead?” 

“Absolutely,” Lars said as they headed toward the dining room. 

In the dining room, everyone stood when they entered. 

“My wife speaks highly of you, Mister Lars,” Lord Crawley said. “Perhaps you can stay longer.” 

Lady Mary smiled. “Mister Lars, you must.” 

“Nah, we can’t stay here forever,” Lars said. “I got a wife and kids at home.” 

“I miss my guitar,” Tim said. 

“But it’s an open thing, so it’s all good,” Lars added quickly. 

“She’s beautiful,” Tim said. 

Lady Mary took a step closer to them. “Of course any wife of yours would be beautiful, Mister Lars.” 

“He’s talking about his guitar,” Lars said. 

“Talented, gorgeous, fits right in my arms,” Tim said. “Been with her almost thirty years.” 

Lady Edith pointed at Tim. “His wife?” 

Lars shook his head. “Still talking about his guitar.” 

Lord Crawley approached them. “If you truly know the future, you must warn me. Is my home safe? My family? My country?” 

Tim raised his eyebrows. “Well…”

“Prepare your butt for Hitler,” Lars said. 

Lord Crawley frowned. “Gentlemen, I need you to be honest with me. What - ” 

Just then one of the footmen entered holding a log of firewood in the air. “Anarchy!” he yelled, and he struck Lord Crawley on the head. Lord Crawley fell to the floor with a loud crash. 

“Thomas!” Lady Mary shouted. Lady Crawley rushed to her husband’s side. 

Thomas turned to Tim. “The others are setting fire to the cottages. Will you join us, Mister Wolverine?” 

“Um…” Tim said. “I’m good, thanks.” 

Thomas rushed out of the room, and Mary chased after him. Lars pulled Tim into the entranceway. 

“You organized a revolution?” Lars asked. 

Tim shrugged. “No one had a guitar. I got bored.” 

Lars sighed. “You know, people get hanged in 1912 for less than this.” 

There was the low rumbling of thunder from outside. 

“Then we should probably get the fuck out of here.” 

Tim and Lars got outside just as it started raining. They headed for the middle of the adjacent field. The storm was still in the distance, but they could tell it was closing in on them quickly. 

“Standing in the rain,” Lars said. He took a few steps toward Tim. “It’s romantic, isn’t it?” 

Tim smiled and put his hand on Lars’ chest. “You’re a good man and one of my best friends.” He pushed until Lars was at arm’s length. “But my heart belongs to a 62 Fender Acoustic.” 

“And that pale servant girl.” 

Tim nodded. “And that woman in Oakland.” 

“And that one in Vegas.” 

“And the one in Memphis.” 

“And the one in Seattle.” 

Tim shook his head. “She got married. I bought them a juicer.” 

Lars’ eyes widened. “Tell me you put my name on it.” 

“Of course.” 

The lightning crashed overhead. Lars stretched his hands up. “Take us back home!” 

Tim waved his arms over his head. “There are no records here!” 

The next crash of lightning blinded them, and when they could see again, they were on the lawn in front of Tim’s house. 

“Fucking TV, I love you,” Lars muttered as he opened the front door. 

On the couch, Matt was flipping through the TV channels, and grunted out a greeting as they entered. 

Tim let out a strangled yelp, rushed to the chair where his acoustic guitar was lying, and hugged it tightly. 

“We had a little adventure,” Lars explained. “He’s not in his right mind.” 

Matt raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never seen him make out with his guitar before?” He turned the TV off. “We couldn’t fit extra shit on Op Ivy tours, so whenever we got back they needed some alone time.” 

“Don’t listen to them,” Tim whispered to his guitar. 

“Anyway, let’s see if we fucked up the world,” Lars said as he walked to the desk on the other side of the room and switched on Tim’s computer. 

Tim placed his guitar back on the chair and picked up the newspaper on the coffee table. “Looks like politics are less conservative.” 

“More women in the senate,” Lars added. 

Tim turned a page. “Nice, universal healthcare.” 

“Why are you so behind on the news?” Matt asked. 

“The last President was a woman,” Lars said. “And hey! Your little Daisy was Prime Minister!” 

Tim walked over to the computer. “Ha! Good for her.” 

Lars clicked a link. “And look, her granddaughter’s in a punk band.” 

“She’s cute,” Tim said. 

“And her face is kind of familiar,’ Lars added. “Really familiar.” 

“And she’s cute.” 

Lars closed the browser window. “You’re not going to England to have sex with your own granddaughter.” 

Tim smirked. “Well, not right now.” 

Matt turned around to face them. “What are you two talking about?” 

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Tim said. “I’m exhausted.” 

“And so’s my tongue,” Lars said. “Why’s it so hot?” He went to the window and pushed it open. 

Matt stood up. “What the fuck, Lars? Close the windows! Are you trying to let the octopus people in?” 

Lars slammed the window shut, walked over to Tim, and smacked him on the head. “Fuck the butterfly effect, he says.” 

Tim smiled. “Worth it. Night, guys.” 

Tim walked upstairs, got into bed, and fell asleep listening to the melodic chirping of the octopus people.


End file.
